


Race you to the stars

by LadyBraken



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Digital Art, Horcruxes, In Character, It's in the title, M/M, Mind fuckery, One Shot, Poetic, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Shameless Smut, Sort Of, Soul Sex, Stars, Voldemort is an ass, as he is supposed to be, so much stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 04:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12522800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBraken/pseuds/LadyBraken
Summary: "Harry's thoughts were chaotic. He couldn't believe he was sitting silently and peacefully beside his worst enemy, a Dark Lord, a psychotic serial murderer, a tyrant in his spare time ... at Hogwarts. He had managed to break through the magic barriers of Hogwarts. And this information, entering softly in his mind, terrified him more than anything."





	Race you to the stars

**Author's Note:**

> A little one shot I had in mind since far too many time. I hope you will enjoy it, and please review!  
> (Harry mort for ever people)

* * *

 

> _Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art-_   
>  _Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night_   
>  _And watching, with eternal lids apart,_   
>  _Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,_   
>  _The moving waters at their priestlike task_   
>  _Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,_   
>  _Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask_   
>  _Of snow upon the mountains and the moors-_   
>  _No- yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,_   
>  _Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,_   
>  _To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,_   
>  _Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,_   
>  _Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,_   
>  _And so live ever- or else swoon to death._
> 
> _Bright Star - John Keats_
> 
> * * *

Harry could not stand it anymore. It was just ... too much. Too much pressure from all sides, too many expectations.

  
  


Half of the school looked at him like he was crazy. He had asked for nothing, nothing!

  
  


The last lesson of occlumency with Snape had been the drop of water that flowed the bucket. Umbridge had assured him that he felt helpless, and Snape had taken advantage of it. It was useless.

  
  


But he had to keep fighting. He just needed ... just a little air. He needed to go out, to get away from the stifling walls that enclosed him, chained him, reported on all of his actions and gestures. He needed to feel the wind on his skin, in his lungs, to be able to close his eyes knowing that he was alone.

  
  


Harry slid down the corridors, grazing the walls. He did not have the strength to go back to the tower to get his cloak of invisibility. But years of being chased and pursued, by his cousin, journalists, teachers, Death Eaters and many other people had taught him to be as discreet and silent as a shadow.

  
  


He hated winter.

  
  


He ended up finding a window big enough for him to get through. The secret passages were guarded and too obvious. Moreover, Harry did not want to leave Hogwarts, only to be out in the open. Or somewhere alone, anywhere. He conjured his broom, not even paying attention to the fact that he had done it without his wand.

  
  


He could hear the faint sounds of the new year’s party somewhere below him.

  
  


His scar pulsed against his skull.

  
  


With a thrust of his foot, he stepped over the parapets and dropped into the night. He took advantage of the adrenaline, the air that trampled his whole body in his fall, the sensation of abandonment …

  
  


He pulled his broom up a few meters from the ground before landing softly.

  
  


The moon was high in the sky, almost round, but bright and white, untouched by the few black clouds brought by the winter.

  
  


A slight smile spread over his face for the first time since last year as he took a deep breath. The air smelled of snow, sap, magic, the tumultuous water of the dark lake, the night, the stone, the damp earth, and that particular fragrance of the forbidden forest. His home.

  
  


He did not know why he was so attracted to the forbidden forest. Perhaps the sensation of danger lured his Gryffindor side, perhaps it was the certainty of never being disturbed, perhaps the ambient magic calmed his nerves. It seemed to him that the trees whispered in the wind and the roots were rumbling to seize more and more land, always closer to Hogwarts like a sweet, slow, almost languorous invasion. Or was it the smell, which he could not find anywhere else, in this place where the dead were not buried but always part of a whole, always had a usefulness, and allowed life to begin again, the flowers line the floor and the unicorns in the clearings.

  
  


The moon broke through the dome of red leaves, bare branches and thorns, and its silver rays illuminated its way through the gnarled racies. His breath formed a soft cloud of mist above his head. He shuddered, but he had nothing to cover up with other than his robes, and he did not want it anyway. The cold made him feel alive.

  
  


He sat down against one of the trunks, his body stuck between two enormous roots, his legs raised so that his feet lay, crossed, on one of them. He watched the stars through the roof of the forest. Above Hogwarts, they were always shining a little more. Glad to have found a celestial guardian, who would watch the forest for him, he crossed his arms on his torpor and closed his eyes, enjoying solitude to let himself go for the first time in months. His scar pulsed slightly, but he felt no pain.

  
  


But something wasn’t quite right. He didn’t like being here like he should have. Sighing, he tried to find in his memory a place which would be more solitary than this one, somewhere where no one would come to seek him and where his senses should not be on alert as in the forest. Then he remembered.

  
  


Harry walked around the edge of the forest until he reached the part of the castle that was right on the edge of the water. There, a large iron door marked the presence of a chapel, of which few knew, hidden behind branches and invisible from the castle itself.

Gently, so as not to disturb the place, Harry opened the door.

  
  


The chapel had been dug out of the rock in a wall so that the Muggle students could continue to live their worship as they wished when they arrived at Hogwarts. However, no one frequented the place for fear of repercussions. Harry himself had only heard of it once he had put his hand on the marauders' map, and yet, he had to search to see it.

  
  


The chapel wasn’t very large. It was entirely carved out of the rock, the extremity of which, opposite to the great spire, was still formed of crude stone and natural crystals. Six pillars supported the dome, pierced by an oculus which let the rays of the moon fell on the altar, on which a statuette had been placed. The benches themselves were of solid stone along with the rest, as if  the room was only one solid and eternal whole. Harry withdrew his shoes and socks. It seemed natural to him to limit his contact with this place, ironically, eminently magical with an object so mundane, and Muggle.

  
  


When his bare feet touched the crumpled stone, a shiver ran through him. The place was welcoming but mysterious. He had the sensation that it was waiting for him. He knew that this chapel  was there long before his birth,  and would stand upright long after he died , and his children perished as well. 

  
  


His little statuette stood in a puddle of white light, and Harry was struck by the thought that it would happen only once a year and, depending on the moon cycle, perhaps even less often. It was the only point of light, all of the rest of the space was plunged in a respectful shadow, as if the walls did not dare to draw attention away from what was so naturally valued by the sky.

  
  


Slowly he made his way towards the first step at the end of the hall, upon which stood an altar empty of all offerings for far too long. He sat on the first bench, slightly to the right of the symmetrical center, almost under the oculus. He looked up. The ceiling around the aperture was decorated with painted stars, connected to one another to form the constellations hidden from view by the stone.

  
  


He stayed there for a long time, his eyes closed. Here, he did not hear others celebrate. Here, there was no living creature other than him.

  
  


Something shifted in the air.

  
  


Voldemort stood next to him in the central hallway, his hands behind his back, like a great dark lark in the middle of the night. Under the ray of the moon, his too pale skin seemed to shine, to glow. He looked like an apparition, a spell. But he wasn’t. Red, cold, fixed eyes had landed on Harry.

  
  


The boy shivered.

  
  


But the place was too calm, too pure, too sacred for him to think of anything but a simple shudder. He felt tired. He did not want to fight. He did not really have the strength. He just wanted, for once, to be at peace. Just feel the wind on his skin.

  
  


He wasn’t sure if they were his own feelings anymore.

  
  


The cold wind lifted his cloak. He looked up. Threatening clouds covered the sky, lazily drawing closer to each other, intermittently veiling the window above Harry, plunging the room in the dark several seconds.

  
  


There was a quiet rasping, and when the lunar light returned, Voldemort sat on the same bench with him, at a respectful distance.

  
  


Harry did not turn his head but watched the black magician out of the corner of his eye. It was strange, that state of contemplation in which he was - in which they both were. Voldemort also kept his eyes fixed on the sky 's fleeting view , like a king observing his country from the top of a mountain.

  
  


Harry's thoughts were chaotic. He couldn’t believe he was sitting silently and peacefully beside his worst enemy, a Dark Lord, a psychotic serial murderer, a tyrant in his spare time ... at Hogwarts. He had managed to break through the magic barriers of Hogwarts. And this information, entering softly in his mind, terrified him more than anything.

But here, now, Voldemort looked like… an apparition, a statue, something that wasn’t real. Maybe he wasn’t, maybe Harry wanted him to. Nothing seemed real to him since...

  
  


He remembered when life was simple, when he still believed that  magic would save him and that life was simple, black and white, with of course his own person as hero. How wrong he had been. His parents had died because of him, Cedric had died because of him Strangely, he felt equally guilty for the fate of Barty Crouch Jr. After all, it was through his teachings that he had succeeded in opposing the most powerful mage of all time -minus Dumbledore-, whatever his original intentions.

  
  


No, he was no hero. He couldn’t save the world, he couldn’t save his loved ones, he couldn’t save himself.

  
  


That realisation, somehow, numbed his mind even mind even more, and sharpened his senses. He was very aware of Voldemort- of the way his chest was moving with his respiration, calmly, yet his hand still on his wand, like the last visible trace of his ever-present paranoia.

  
  


Finally, conjuring all of his Gryffindor bravery, Harry decided to speak.

  
  


“What are you doing here?” he whispered.

  
  


He wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t feet quite right to speak out loud here, even less to that man.

  
  


He did not know why he was not afraid of Voldemort. Why the Dark Lord had not attacked him, why they stood there, alone, in the middle of the night, watching a piece of the sky like it was a long lost treasure. But he knew that it was right, as if by mutual agreement, a truce had taken place in the heart of the forbidden place.

  
  


Voldemort sighed.

  
  


“Just a moment of quiet, Potter.”

  
  


“Wha-”

  
  


“Just shut up,” he hissed.

  
  


Harry felt a tinge of anger, but he didn’t speak. Somehow… Voldemort was right. But his pride was too strong for that.

  
  


“I’m not afraid of you.”

  
  


“No… no you never were.”

  
  


The boy didn’t know what to do with that answer. Shouldn’t the Dark Lord at least insult him and his family on 13 generations?

  
  


"Did you know that this place was a pagan place in the beginning, a cave where lunar cycles were celebrated in the witch tradition, and then the ministry decided that Muggle beliefs should be included, has since been transformed into a chapel? There is a pentacle under the Jesus statue. "

  
  


He pointed nonchalantly at the statuette, which stared at them with hard eyes.

  
  


“No, I didn’t,” the boy whispered back, his breath trembling slightly because of the cold winter wind entering the room.

  
  


The silence was somehow even more heavy now.

  
  


“What happened?” Harry surprised himself by that question. Yet, he couldn’t help it that he could feel… something amiss in the Dark Lord’s emotional range. Now that he was actually touching him, Harry could feel it even more distinctly.

  
  


The worst was that he wasn’t sure if he had asked by pure curiosity.

  
  


If the Dark Lord was surprised by the question, he obviously didn’t show it. He didn’t answer it  either.

  
  


Harry looked up and sighed. He wanted to scream, to shout, to say to Voldemort that he was a murderer and a monster, but what was the point? The man was, as far as he knew, very aware of that fact and quite unremorseful of his crimes.

  
  


However, Harry had never seen the Dark Lord so… whatever he was right now. Nonaggressive. His immediate surroundings weren't saturated by thick, cold magic, his red eyes didn’t glow of murderous rage.

  
  


As the minutes passed in silence, the moonbeam moved almost imperceptibly. Midnight approached.

  
  


Then Harry remembered something.

  
  


"It's your birthday, isn’t it?"

  
  


The Dark Lord nodded. "I came home."

  
  


"Well, Happy Birthday, Tom," Harry replied, a hint of irony in his voice.

  
  


He was surprised to hear Voldemort's chuckle. "Thank you. Nobody wishes me a happy birthday, Potter."

  
  


"Harry. And I do."

  
  


He could feel Voldemort's curious gaze burning his skin.

  
  


“Why?”

  
  


“Nobody wishes me Happy Birthday either… except Hagrid, the day he told me I was a wizard.”

  
  


Voldemort tsked.

  
  


"You didn’t know..."

  
  


"That I was a wizard? Not before my eleventh year, no, the muggles hid it ... out of fear, I think."

  
  


He could feel the anger coming from the man. Why? Why was he angry, he should rejoice of his enemy's misery and lack of magical knowledge, shouldn’t he?

  
  


Well, he shouldn’t be able to pass the wards, or to sit next to said enemy, for that matter.

  
  


_ “Did you think that I would keep the name of my muggle father?” _

  
  


Tom looked so angry at that moment… even more than when he accused him of his own murder.

  
  


“You were muggle raised too, weren’t you?”

  
  


It wasn’t really a question.

  
  


“And what makes you think that, Harry?”

  
  


Back to the cold malevolence. Now, they were more on known ground.

  
  


“Nobody hates the Muggle world more than those who had to live with them. Disdain? Yes, but hate… It comes from experience, doesn’t it?”

  
  


This time, Harry shifted his gaze from the sky and placed it on the apparition beside him. The Dark Lord expressed no other emotion than ... Something neutral, empty, and desperate, as if he could not simply show anything but the absence he had created in his soul.

  
  


Harry felt no pity, no ….compassion, perhaps. Understanding.

  
  


“You’re not as stupid as Snape described you.”

  
  


Harry’s laugh echoed through the room. He tried to repress it, but what was the point?

  
  


“That’s actually a real compliment, coming from you. Even if I doubt anyone is as stupid as Snape might think. That man has a very high opinion of himself.”

  
  


Voldemort smirked.

  
  


“Don’t tell him I said that, though. I would be good for a hundred years of detention with Umbridge.”

  
  


“Your secret is safe with me,” he said, arching an eyebrow.

  
  


Voldemort was amused, not that Harry could hear it in his voice, still cold and stark as always… but he could feel it.

  
  


A new cloud hid the light.

  
  


He suddenly felt stifled. His breath will accelerate slightly. Hell, he had not escaped to put another roof over his head.

  
  


He was free...

  
  


...and yet caged.

  
  


Harry looked down at his broomstick. He did not really believe he could get away with it so easily, but something in Voldemort's posture left him a hope. He was as regal as in the cemetery, but something about him lacking. Maybe… maybe he would just let him go.

  
  


He rose and started to walk towards the door when a cold hand gripped his wrist. Harry could not get his eyes off those thin, white fingers, like a spider’s legs, that clasped his arm more forcefully than they should have been able to.

  
  


The hand, cold as a corpse, burned his skin.

  
  


Voldemort was not a statue. Not a spell, not his imagination, nor the cold or the shadow of the trees that made him imagine things. Not a threat in a corner of his mind, always present but yet far away. No, he was there, in person. A person, with all that went with it: soul, mind and body, cravings, angers and needs, and a person who was really holding his arm, and who had not attacked him then they had faced off for several minutes already. Deep down, Harry knew that he had not reacted, it was out of hope that it wasn’t true…

  
  


“Where are you going, Harry? Running to your dear Dumbledore?”

  
  


Harry glared at the man, still conscious of the fact that he had not let go of his arm, of that burning and living skin against his. What was wrong with him? A moment ago, he was so calm and still, and now he was back in full Dark Lord mode.

  
  


In a moment of boldness, he tilted his head.

  
  


“Do you really think that it was what I was about to do?” he asked almost angrily, but still quietly, hissing every word as much as he could.

  
  


Did his life-long enemy think so little of him? A worthless child, that would run in fear hide behind Dumbledore? That would dare disturb the truce?

  
  


The Dark lord narrowed his eyes a second, then his face resume to the blank neutrality he had previously. His grip loosened but he didn’t let go of Harry.

  
  


“Will you?”

  
  


“I won’t.”

  
  


Voldemort tilted his head in silent understanding, a smirk on his lips.

  
  


The idea that Voldemort wasn’t trying to kill him as he should crossed his mind, but Harry dismissed it. Mere details.

  
  


He withdrew his arm from the grip and walked to the exit, and pushed the door open. The wind kicked up harshly and he pulled his robes closer to his body. He looked up. He couldn’t see the stars or the moon anymore. It almost made him cry. Keeping his head up, he did not react when the first drops fell on his face, faster and faster, making his hair cling to  his head and soaking his clothes.

  
  


Harry turned towards the door. Voldemort was there, arms crossed on his chest, motionless like a statue. The drops streamed down his skull, before his eyes, yet he did not blink. His tall frame was blurred by the rain screen, but Harry still felt his aura distinctly black, cold and empty. Utterly fascinating, disgustingly beautiful.

  
  


The rain was still falling on his head, like it would on anybody’s. And Harry was sure that if he wanted to, Voldemort could make it stop. But he didn’t.

  
  


He looked so alone, and maybe he was.

  
  


Ignoring the rain and the frozen wind that waved his black robes, the Dark Lord approached with measured steps.

  
  


Harry did not move.

  
  


When he was only a few centimeters from the boy, the sorcerer stopped.

  
  


"How come you're not afraid of me?"

  
  


"Because you want me to fear you. I'm known to do everything but what’s expected, am I not? I have a reputation to preserve."

  
  


He smiled, his hungry, cold, mocking smile.

  
  


"It's strange, isn’t it? On the day of the birth of a being who aspires to so much grace, the stars are hidden from him ... "

  
  


"Feeling poetic tonight, Harry?"

  
  


Harry could not laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Voldemort was too calm, too close. He could see the dark splints in his red eyes, probably the remains of their original hue, feeling the breath coming out of his mouth even though no cloud of mist was forming above him. He was not disgusted no ... he felt at home. He wanted to get close again.

  
  


Midnight sounded, and shouts of joy from dozens of teenagers who were partying resounded in the garden of the castle, stifled by distance and rain.

  
  


A wave of disgust for all those ignorant of the true meaning of this date overwhelmed him. He buried it deep in his mind.

  
  


He needed to be out of here.

  
  


“Strange what the presence of a murderer can do to you, mhm?”

  
  


He didn’t know why he felt so angry and frustrated suddenly. Maybe the sudden disrespect, maybe the whole situation.

  
  


“At least I’m not a pawn in someone else game.”

  
  


“Better a pawn than a monster.”

  
  


Voldemort’s eyes narrowed with rage, and is magic came back around him at full force. At least he wasn’t apathetic anymore.

  
  


“And what does it make you, Harry? What will you do with this?”

  
  


Voldemort clutched his grip on his wand and lifted it slightly, with a movement made sure by years of experience.

  
  


So this was the moment when they tried to kill each other...

  
  


The cold must have slowed his mind, because he caught the hand holding the wand, bringing them a little closer.

"Do you think, Harry, that you're better than me? Greater? Do you think that in all of your self-righteous morality you can go as far as I did?" spat Voldemort.

  
  


Harry shook his head, and met the crimson glare without a shiver.

  
  


“Race you to the stars.”

  
  


Voldemort stared at him. It was strange how he looked like Tom Riddle from that close. How he looked like Harry. The same anger in the eyes and the same bitter twist of his mouth.

  
  


With a silent agreement, they both rushed forward. Harry straddled his broomstick as Voldemort tapped the floor with his foot and his body was wrapped in a large patch of black smoke. They flew towards the cloudy canopy, swirling around one another, the water whipping their faces. Harry's hair was clad on his skull. He was absent in the race, to know which of them would touch the hidden stars first. He couldn't breath and everything was a blur, he was only aware of the water on his skin, the wind that was caressing his body and the two red gems swirling around him. It was a fall and a climb, a race to life and greatness, and god he just wanted to breath...

  
  


At that moment, without their perception of it, they touched each other, flying like a single being in the storm that rumbled until it pierced the lowest cloud .

  
  


He was breathing again.

  
  


They stopped in mid-air. Harry shivered, but it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. He felt awake, alive. Disconnected from the mundane of the people with their feet on earth, alone facing some mystery. He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

  
  


Well, not quite alone.

  
  


Voldemort flew a few yards from him, his black robes stretched out on either side of his body, indistinguishable from the dark smoke which seemed to cause his flight undifferentiated from his body itself. He seemed to be lying in the void, his arms slightly extended on either side. Damn, he was swimming in the clouds.

  
  


It was really ridiculous, how graceful he was.

  
  


Harry couldn’t help but to stare. He felt like an imposter, with his broom. He didn’t belonged here. Obviously, Voldemort did.

  
  


He looked away when he saw that Voldemort had noticed he was staring. Smirking, the Dark Lord held out his hand.

  
  


“Come here.”

  
  


Harry looked at him dubiously, then his broomstick, then the Dark Lord, and this time, full of incredulity. Really? Did Voldemort think he was crazy enough, or desperate enough to throw himself into the void? He was not yet suicidal.

  
  


Yet, he wanted to. Not to die, to fly, without brooms, to be part of the sky, without artifice ... He bit his lip.

  
  


"Come on, trust me."

  
  


Voldemort's voice was assured, and devoid of any sarcasm or threat.

  
  


Did Harry trust him? He hadn’t tried to kill him so far, and he felt the insane urge to help...

  
  


"Trust me."

  
  


Obviously, the boy's body decided for him as he slid slowly from his broomstick to drop, and grabbed Voldemort's hand. He found himself clad in his robes, his back against the torso of the Dark Lord, floating hundreds of meters from the ground. From there he could really see the sky, even more than if he was lying in the grass. No, he was surrounded, surrounded by this infinite void.

He felt Voldemort's breathing against him, he heard his heart beat regularly.

  
  


Human. Voldemort was human like him, like all those people who trampled the earth. In a way, it calmed his apprehension and depressed him. Voldemort did not hold him, he just let him rest on him. Harry didn’t dwell on the strangeness of it all because here it was ok. No stars or clouds could report to Dumbledore, to the world, to anyone that may judge them.

  
  


It was only Tom and him, wasn’t it?

  
  


It was so peaceful… but he knew he was missing something.

  
  


“I can’t see them, you know.”

  
  


He could feel Voldemort arching an eyebrow. “The stars. I can’t see them. I’m almost blind.”

  
  


He didn’t mean to sound so defeated, but it wasn’t like he could control anything right now. Two pale hand ghosted over his eyes and everything went dark.

  
  


Immediately, not even thinking about the fact that he was miles above the ground, Harry started thrashing around.

  
  


"The fuck are you-”

  
  


“Shush, boy. Just wait.”

  
  


He froze. Waves of tickling magic were running on his body, on his eyes, and it was so warm, so sweet and terrible.

  
  


When Voldemort removed his hand, Harry could see.

  
  


Oh, not that pitiful excuse of vision he had in his everyday life, no, he could really see. The stars shined, some of them bigger, some of them slightly tainted. He could see the moon like never before, the pits and mountains, and did it alway looked like the face of a woman? And Voldemort’s robes, he could see the fabric, hell, the strings crossing each other to create the whole thing and the delicate shades of the magic, dark yes, but also green and blue and vibrant, pulsing…

  
  


“Is that how you see the world?” he asked, amazed.

  
  


“Yes.”

  
  


“Wow. It’s… it’s beautiful.”

  
  


“It is.”

  
  


Harry watched the sky, suddenly understanding what all his astronomy classes were about. Voldemort pointed a corner of the abyss above them with his too long finger.

  
  


"You see that constellation? It's Orion's constellation. One of the most known, even among the muggles. However, we wizards know that the placement of these stars can predict the result of battles, and help the brew powerful potions like amortentia... I could teach you so much, Harry..."

  
  


"You should have been a professor," laughed the boy, dismissing the undertone with a wave of his hand.

  
  


"I tried. But Dumbledore refused. The man never liked me, even as a kid."

  
  


Harry chuckled. "Really, you're telling me that someone didn't fall for the perfect Tom Riddle, prefect, genius, savior of the school?"

  
  


" I think that old man had eyes everywhere. I could lie with all my talent, but he knew, he just knew. I swear he's channeling Merlin himself sometimes."

  
  


"I don't think Merlin was so far off his rockers, though. I mean Dumbledore did send me to free a prisoner from an army of dementors when I was thirteen. Somehow I don't see Merlin doing that. "

  
  


Voldemort chuckled and Harry suddenly felt over-conscious of the fact that they were touching. He frowned and took one of the Dark Lord’s hands.

  
  


“You’re cold. Why are you so cold?”

  
  


“I don’t need as much blood as everybody else. I don’t have that much blood, for that matter.

  
  


“My blood…”

  
  


“Yes. Your blood.”

  
  


Harry let his head lie on the Dark Lord's shoulder and sighed.

  
  


“Why aren’t you trying to kill me?”

  
  


Voldemort took the time to answer, visibly in deep thought. “It doesn't seem right.”

  
  


“Doesn’t seem right?”

  
  


“Indeed. It’s not like I cannot kill you later. But today… No, not today.”

  
  


Harry was dumbfounded. He open his mouth to answer, but closed it again, at loss for words.This was a thing that seemed to happen far too often tonight.

  
  


**“You’re alone, aren’t you?”**

  
  


The boy only noticed he had switched languages when Voldemort didn’t answer him.

  
  


“You’re a parselmouth.” Harry had never heard so much surprise from the Dark Lord.

  
  


“I am. Your younger you… Riddle… in the chamber. He said that we were alike, he and I,” murmured the boy, remembering Riddle, remembering what Voldemort used to be.

  
  


Tom firmly took him by the hips and turned him over to face the Dark Wizard.

  
  


"He said that?"

  
  


"Yes, but I disagree," answered the boy stubbornly. He wasn't like Voldemort, he couldn't be, "I'm no murderer."

  
  


Voldemort tugged his fingers in the boy's hair, and his other arm slid around his waist as if he wanted to pin him where he was. He leaned closer and Harry could feel his warm breath against his neck. The boy was suddenly startled by how intimate the position was. He could feel the beating of the man’s heart, the heat of his body, the texture of his skin, the blood running through his veins. 

  
  


Red eyes locked into his.

  
  


"Is that all I am, Harry?" all but purred Voldemort.

  
  


Harry considered what that meant for a moment. He looked at Voldemort with his new eyes, noticing things he hadn't before, such human things. The vein pulsing under his translucent skin, the dark shadow under his eyes, the traces of his once glorious features, and the marks of age.

  
  


"No. But it's what I'm not," whispered the boy, his green eyes shining with an internal fire, yet not angry or aggressive. He was making a statement. Was his life worth more than the one of the fascinating and terrible man in front of him? Probably not. Yet, he had to make things right, even if there was no rightness in any of this. If only for himself.

  
  


"You have no idea how powerful you are... You could have been great if you had listened to me the first time we met."

  
  


" I don't think you would truly have liked it if I had kneeled at your feets and stop fighting. You would have hated me the same way you hate all of your minions, wouldn't you? You never wanted me to be less than you. You never wanted me to be like you. "

  
  


They were only inches apart, and Harry's mind just stopped thinking. The anger, the pain, the sadness, and something else, all were raging inside his chest, along with his drumming heart.

  
  


"Maybe."

  
  


Voldemort's eyes fell on The Saviour's lips.

  
  


Suddenly, Harry's scar burnt again. And he saw himself. No, it wasn't himself, was it? His skin didn't look so soft, his hair didn't fly with such grace, his eyes didn't shine with so much life and power. And his lips certainly weren't that inviting.

  
  


Wait. Why were his eyes red?

  
  


It took him a few seconds to come back to his senses. The dull pain in his scar was the only indication of what had happened.

  
  


A vision. He had had a god damn vision in front of Voldemort.

  
  


He looked at the man that was intently staring at him, almost too close to really come to focus.

  
  


Their lips crashed together. Neither of them could tell who closed the last gap.

  
  


Harry was afraid to feel pain, voluntarily or not. It was all surreal. His scar burned, his heart drummed.

  
  


And it did burn.

  
  


But not like it used to, no. It was the burn of a fusion. The spark that ran through their bodies at that simple contact destroyed every hesitation.

  
  


The next kiss was hungry.

  
  


It wasn't soft or warm. It was demanding, rough, leaving a feverish feeling under his skull, full of confidence and command, full of everything they had. It was the kiss of two men that were each other's center of attention for almost twenty years. They were trying to tame each other, not quite succeeding but just enough to allow a balance.

  
  


A tongue pressed against Harry's lower lip, urging him to open his mouth. Soon, Voldemort explored all the corners of Harry's mouth, while the boy seemed to suck up the last fragments of the Dark Lord's soul.

 

Voldemort's hand clutched his hair, pulling his head slightly back for better access, his arm encircling his waist and pressing the boy against him.

 

Harry felt something hard against him, but he did not react. He was not in a better condition. He gripped Voldemort as if to prevent him from escaping, even if the latter had shown no intention of letting him fall to a certain death until then. Closing his eyes, Harry savored the touch of the silky robes and his patches of skin almost crumpled, brushed against the scales at the base of the neck with his fingertips, stroking all that was within his reach.

  
  


But the most intense was the smell, the taste. Blood, ubiquitous, metallic, but also, underneath, smells of spring, sun, as if breathing pure amortentia, as if he drank whole cauldrons every time his tongue touched and danced with that of Voldemort.

  
  


As their excitement rose, their magic began to swirl around them, an extension of their being. The two flows touched, twisted, mingled.

  
  


The one of Voldemort, cold, hard, always on the verge of implosion, that of Harry warm, supple, pure. Something in the boy, in his mind, in his very soul, was singing, dancing and wanting more. Even more may not be enough.  He kissed Voldemort more violently and wrapped his legs around his waist, revelling in a delicious friction.

  
  


The breath of the Dark Lord deepened, and Harry could not help worshiping the way his chest unfolded under that breath that he had altered.

  
  


The fact that they floated above the clouds forced them to clutch at each other with even more force, leaving blues on their arms and scratches in their backs. There was nothing else around them. No one, no people, no danger. Nothing could surprise them, no other witness than the good god - and he had seen others.

  
  


Cold drops slipped from his hair under the spidery fingers on his neck and his boiling skin, snatching sighs and swinging hips.

  
  


The sucks became bites and Harry's mouth filled with a taste of blood. He sighed and arched his hips slightly, causing a chill in Voldemort's back. Harry gripped his dark robes so tight his knuckles became white to give him support, toes curling and mouth swollen.

  
  


They parted and Harry finally opened his eyes. Voldemort's lips were tinged with red, the traces of which extended over the milk skin of his chin. His pupils were blown up with desire and his body shuddered with strength and magic hardly contained.

  
  


Harry had provoked this.

  
  


**"So tell me Harry..."** whispered Voldemort in his ear ,  **"How does it feel to be fucked by a murderer?"**

  
  


Harry heart was clearly trying to beat its way out of his chest. The Parselmouth went straight to his aching erection, but also brought him some strange sort of comfort. It was their language, only for the two of them, and nobody else could understand. He was so eager and so painfully hard, his pants suddenly far too tight, but somehow he managed to answer.

  
  


**"I don't know** **_My Lord_ ** **, how does it feel to be destroyed by a toddler?"**

  
  


The mix of the cheek, the playful smile on those bloody lips, the  Parselmouth , and the utilisation of his own title sent Voldemort wild. He attacked Harry's mouth more than he kissed it, but without trying to hurt the boy.

  
  


No, he was far too precious for that.

  
  


He grinded against the young man, earning an unholy sound of pleasure.

  
  


Voldemort shifted and kissed the young man's cheek, then braced before  he chased the lines that the rain had left on Harry's neck that the rain had left with his forked tongue, blowing on it. He nibbled the skin so delectable, sucked up to leave marks as Harry's hands boldly ventured along his body, stroking the neck, shoulders, arms, ribs, passing under and through his robes, leaving burning lines on his skin, marking him with the sparks of uncontrolled magic that escaped him.

  
  


It was utterly exquisite.

  
  


His mouth was soon stopped by a piece of cloth, a T-shirt, which he looked with the obvious will to make it  self-combust. Considering that Tom was capable of it, Harry secured his legs around his hips and let go with his arms. With a movement of shoulders, he took off his robes, which were left to fly and quickly fell out of sight.

  
  


With false confidence, rolling the muscles of his arms and his back, he lifted his T-shirt and sent it to fly in the same way.

 

He felt Voldemort's gaze devour him, scrutinizing every detail of his skin, and the Dark Lord's arousal reacted to the sight. Then, when the red eyes stopped on his ribs, Harry became self-conscious and turned away his head, blushing with shame.

  
  


Reality was catching up.

  
  


Voldemort's fingerings ghosted over his scars, over the words, shameful and insulting, that covered his mind as much as they covered his body.

  
  


"Muggles?" the serpentine man asked coldly.

  
  


Harry only nodded.

  
  


The Dark Lord took his chin between pale fingers, forcing Harry to face him. He arched an eyebrow. "I could do a much better when I was fifteen," he simply stated. Then he took Harry's hand and read the I must tell no lies. "How... vulgar," he whispered.

  
  


When he returned his attention to Harry, he was even more feral. He bit Harry’s neck with more hunger, marks covered the taned skin. His marks.

  
  


Harry understood. Voldemort wanted Harry to be his, in every way. But he couldn't give that. He murmured a spell between his teeth and the rest of his clothes were gone. The sensation of this hot mouth against his skin was delicious, but he needed more. All of his being was demanding more, just for once, he wanted everything. He wanted to drown, to burn, to breath and suffocate, to blur and blend into his other half, in the only person that knew everything, that could see him.

  
  


_ Just once, please, just once. _

  
  


The Dark Lord smirked appreciatively at Harry's boldness. The boy had no idea how delicately obscene he looked.

  
  


He didn’t undress. There was something strangely erotic to that, like Popee’s veil; the glimpses of milky skin dragged the imagination to what was still hidden. Even if Harry had a very strong understanding of it, he couldn’t see, and his caress were even more insistant. It was destroying any reason in his mind, and he let himself fall into pure and depraved lust. Voldemort was like a frightful black sun shining in the night.

  
  


He loved the burn so much.

  
  


Voldemort's hands travelled along his back and spread his cheeks, pressing the young man against him, creating a delicious friction. Harry repositioned his head on the covered shoulder to repress a moan. He occupied himself kissing the protruding collarbone and the hollow between the shoulder and the neck, savouring the taste of the other's skin.

  
  


He felt the long finger wandering against his entrance, sending a sinful shiver down his back.

  
  


**"Tom... "** he whispered when the first digit finally stop teasing and penetrated him. It hurt, but in such a lovely way...

  
  


He felt the man froze an second before a second hand draw the shape of his jaw.

  
  


**"How is it, Harry, that I don't feel insulted when you say that name?"** He said, low and dangerous in Harry's hear, giving the young man, voluntarily or not, the time to adjust to the intrusion.

 

Harry was about to answer something cheeky when a light caress on his member stopped him by making him take a sharp breath and clunshing to the Lord's robes. The winter wind was making him shiver and  cling to the warmth of the others body . The unsaid authorisation reached his mind and made it expand at the same time as the long slicked hand took him and gave a twist, while the first digit started moving and doing some strange but how so lovely things to him.

 

Harry will himself to relax and breathe. He was surprised at how slow Tom was until now, but he could feel that he was reaching a limit in his patience. The only thing holding the Dark Lord back from taking him raw was probably the pleasure he took in taunting him, in making him take that guilty pleasure, making him like to be in his enemy's arms.

 

He was totally succeeding.

 

A second finger add itself to the first one, making Harry grit his teeth in discomfort, but he did not plea or shout. Even lost as he was in the action, he knew he could show no weakness. He couldn't look like prey.

 

Tom started biting the tender skin of his neck again, licking, curling a fist in his hair. Then, he added another finger, scissoring. Harry moaned in pleasure, throwing his head back to give the other man better access. He withdrew his hand and lifted Harry’s legs closer against his hips. It was so delicious, he was so delicious... Harry wanted more, like nothing before. He was almost desperate for another touch, for whatever was coming next.

 

Then Voldemort stopped.

**"Beg."**

 

Harry's eyes took a few second to came back into focus and to actually process what was just said.

 

**"No."**

No. He wasn't one of the Lord's minions, ready to do anything and everything for him. He wasn't loyal to him, he didn't worship him. He had pride, morals, he was a whole person, he he wouldn't let Voldemort take that from him. He couldn’t. He was the only one, the only other parselmouth, the only that could call him Tom, the only one that could make him lose control. It was too far. Too dangerous. Too close and deep.

 

He couldn't let him take that power.

 

**"You don't really want me to, do you, Tom? What would be to point?"** he whispered, trailing his hand down the man's chest,  **"No, you want me fighting, defiant as always. Because you didn't go to one of your whores, Tom. You came to** **_me_ ** **."**

 

He gave a squeeze to the man's cock, his mind racing about the fact that he was touching him in such an intimate way and how right this was, but he didn't break.

 

**"You want this as much as I do. So why don't** **_you_ ** **beg, mhm?"** he added coldly, raising an eyebrow not unlike Voldemort himself used to.

 

Voldemort tsked and whispered something that sounded suspectly like _ 'fucking kid _ ".

 

In an ample movement of his long arms, Voldemort drapped the sides of his robes around Harry and pressed the boy against him, lifting him a bit to allow him to place his member.

Ever so slowly, he let the boy sink onto him with a loud moan.

 

They locked their eyes together and everything went loose.

 

Harry felt the waves of Voldemort's mind flooding into his just as his own was doing, wrapping around his thought. They were only one being in two bodies, yet separated. They could feel Harry’s pain, deep and burning mingling with Voldemort’s raw pleasure, without knowing which belonged to whom. 

 

Voldemort started pounding him. His hands were everywhere, commanding sensations, pleasure and pain, brushing all the right places, their stomach trapping Harry's cock so deliciously. The boy could feel the hand and his own skin between them, the delicate pleasure of his own body and the raw desire of Voldemort's. The Dark Lord was everywhere, in him, on him, around him. He had glimpses of his own lips wanting and parted, of his eyes shining in the dark, of his skin covered with his robes, blurring with his own vision of the Lord's pupils blown with pleasure and his mouth thin with concentration and last remnant of control.

 

They ignored the soft caress of the clouds on their feet and the impressive view of the moon over their shoulders. 

Harry could feel what the man was thinking and he let himself fall further into their link and opened everything. He couldn't even try to think about blocking Voldemort's from his head, he wasn't sure that he was a separate being at that instant.

 

First, their core touched. It was a swift explosion and every physical sensation became overwhelming, all their touches were filled with raw magic dancing on their skins, between them. Harry completely forgot that an actual physical act was going on as he was lifted and pierced by the thick and murderous power, sliding into everything that shouldn't be able to bring him pleasure, fulfilling his every need and desire before he even thought about them. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he knew his own magic was doing the same thing, because the pleasure of his other half was as strong as his own, flooding his mind and blinding his senses.

 

At that moment, Voldemort touched  _ that _ spot.

 

" **Yessss** ..." he hissed, making Voldemort's breath quicken even more. Harry didn't know which lips were on which skin, but it was good. He felt so full, so connected and waves of pure lust and pleasure were coming from his lower regions, making him whisper nonsense. Voldemort's smell was everywhere and embedding itself on Harry's body and mind, marking him far more effectively than any lovemark could have.

They lasted hours, sometimes frantically thrusting, sometimes grinding deep into Harry, hands doing unspeakable things. Voldemort drove him to the edge of the abyss many times, so much that it all became almost unbearable, making the boy cry in need, pleasure, frustration and pain, but always stopped at the right moment, making it last for what seemed to be forever, and magnificent glimpse of eternity.

 

But then... Then their souls touched.

 

He could see everything, past, present... every thought, every wound, every touch, forgetting them after their separation yet knowing them, suddenly knowing himself and Voldemort alike. It took a second and one final thrust.

 

**"Harry..."**

 

All went blank.

 

When Harry woke up, he was lying in the damp grass. He kept his eyes closed and wainted a moment, playing with the grass around him, taking advantage of a moment of calm to put his thoughts in order. He wondered if he had not dreamed it before the smell reached him. He was wrapped in the Dark Lord's robes, their silky softness caressing his skin. His body was deliciously sore.

 

When he opened his eyes, they fell on the reason of his present situation.

Voldemort was seated against a tree, as they had apparently journeyed to the edge of the forest, legs crossed, dressed in a simple black pants. He smoked a cigarette, which sparkled in the light of the early morning.

 

They stood, staring at each other, quite like the previous evening.

 

Voldemort stretched out his hand and stroked one of the marks that marred the young man's neck, in fact after inspection, his whole body.

" **Mine** ," he declared.

 

It wa so tempting. So dangerous. How things could be, by a simple word, by a simple touch. But no.

**"Myself's. I have no master, and I will never have any."**

 

Harry hated that his voice was slightly shaking. Anybody but Voldemort wouldn't have noticed a thing, but he was who he was.

 

The Dark Lord threw his cigarette away and knelt next to Harry, their faces almost touching, the ghosts of the previous night still very present on the boy's mind and body.

 

**"Think about what I could teach you... What I could give you..."** he said lowly, his voice soft as silk and yet somehow cold as the winter night they went through.

 

Poison. He was poison. 

 

**"I belong to myself and myself alone. I have no master, and I never will,"** said Harry harshly.

 

Voldemort grabbed his jaw with an iron fist, preventing it from moving and threw himself on his lips, biting a blood stream along their chins. His fingers would leave blues. Harry did not resist himself, it was useless. He knew that the sorcerer would not go further, he wanted Harry to give himself willingly.

 

When he finally separated his lips from those of voldemort, he said in a broken but determined voice, **"No."**

 

The Lord's magic cracked around them, and Harry understood how he had restrained its suffocating power until now.

 

**"I cannot give you that. There is only one thing that I can give you, and you already have it,"** he explained.

 

He knew Voldemort wouldn't understand. He knew he was trapped, but he wouldn't break, for his own sake and the wizarding world's. Maybe, for Voldemort's too. It simply couldn't be. He knew it was all manipulation now. There was no more truth in Voldemort's month for the truce was over since the sun had shown its face on the east. Their secret wasn't covered by the night's cape anymore.

 

They were the Dark Lord and the Boy-Who-Lived once again.

 

Harry got up and wrapped the belt of his robe around his waist. He raised his hand and his digits his digits hovered by the man's, but he did not dare touch them. He looked at Voldemort one last time, trying to get everything he had in his heart into a mere look, aware that the man in front of him would not understand even if he knew. He just couldn't. How sad it was, how ironic.

He had done it to himself.

 

He turned and went back to the castle.

 

**"See you next year."**

 

It was only when he said that that he understood how far he had fallen.

 

\----

**One year later.**

  
  


It was cold again. Strange how he had longed for the winter. It was obvious that it would happen. He wasn't made for the weather, but he was desperate.

  
  


_ "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... " _

  
  


He had been lightheaded for days now. Waiting. He had snapped at his friends, found himself cruelly taunting to his enemies. But today, they didn't matter. War could wait for tomorrow.

  
  


He was sitting on a parapet, his legs hanging over the edge. He couldn't help but watch the limit of the school's wards. It wouldn't happen again, it mustn't happen again. The wards were too strong, the tension too heavy, the war too close. He himself couldn't get out of the castle, he couldn't imagine anyone getting in.

  
  


_ "... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..." _

  
  


He sighed, a small white cloud forming above his head. He knew – they knew – that this would eventually happen. It was his responsibility.

  
  


He understood, now. He didn't think his lover did. But now...yes he understood what he was. What would happen? But he choose to stay quiet about the prophecy to offer hope to those around him. Everyone around him.

  
  


_ "... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal..." _

  
  


It had been strange to see him in such a way. To see how alike and opposite they were. To understand – not everything, he wouldn't do Voldemort that offence, but a part of it, where it come from. How he could have been the same if it wasn't for his hyperactive moral senses. 

 

"What are you doing here, Potter? Not with your little fan-club? I'm sure there must be a girl or twenty looking for you,  as glorified as you are ," snarled a deep voice behind him.

  
  


Harry closed his eyes and let the cold wind caress his face, bringing back memories of safety, rain and patches of skin chiseled in the starlight. He had never felt bad about it. Strangely, his moral compass was quite blind about that night.

  
  


"Do you know what day it is, professor?" Harry whispered.

  
  


His scar was burning again. He could almost feel Voldemort trying to discreetly pass through the wards. But he couldn't jeopardise his entire position for this. He was, above all, a warlock. He had to do what's good for his plans, no matter the day, no matter the truce.

  
  


"Of course I do you stupid child. Some people here can claim possessing a functioning mind, not that you would relate. Maybe if you weren't arrogant – just like your -"

  
  


"You really don't know your own master, do you?"

  
  


Harry couldn't let him talk about his father. Not today. It hurt to much. It was turning the knife in the wound. He had never betrayed his friends, he had stood strong until the end, but not during this day. This day was his – was theirs. Today he wasn't James's son. He wasn't the next head of the Light, not the hero of Hogwarts, not the ever-too-good Gryffindor. He was Harry.

  
  


Snape fell silent. Harry could almost feel his dark stare burning holes in his back. He couldn't care less.

  
  


The fact that he couldn't just fly away, just escape everything, was agonising. But he had a war to win, people to lead, duties to achieve. He had to do what was right – what was truly right. He started to understand how Dumbledore must have felt, during all these years. Alone.

  
  


"And what day is it, my boy?"

  
  


Speak of the devil.

  
  


Harry looked at the old man with amusement.

  
  


"It's his birthday."

  
  


_ "...but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not..." _

  
  


He turned back to the landscape, a sad smile spreading on his face. He was here, just outside of the wards, on the hill behind the black lake. Seeking something. Wanting Harry, wanting more.

  
  


"Everybody must have a gift on one's birthday..." the young man whispered, his eyes far too old for his age. He was tired.

  
  


"Potter what-"

  
  


Snape was cut by Dumbledore's look. Curious, Harry turned a bit. The headmaster didn't have a merry twinkle in his eyes anymore. Harry felt a bit guilty about it, but today wasn't about pleasing the headmaster.

  
  


"And what will you offer to him, Harry?"

  
  


He closed his eyes.

  
  


"The only thing I can, and will ever be able to, give him, headmaster."

  
  


He waved his wand around him. He thought about the little church down the hill, about that far-too-smart boy, about red eyes looking at him without anger or disdain for the first time, about the touches. He still could feel them ghosting over his skin.

  
  


Midnight rang.

  
  


"Expecto Patronum."

  
  


A magnificent Basilisk rose in the sky, it’s light glowing over the castle, dancing and twisting above the gardens, where Harry himself should have been.

  
  


He knew he had seen it. He knew it was enough of an apology. It was the only gift he could give.

  
  


Harry stared at his own patronus, ignoring the gasps of the two professors. He let the warm feeling crawl under his skin and the cheerful white light spread as the snake grew.

  
  


He knew why Voldemort tasted like amortentia. Why, for Harry, the potion only smelled its own ingredients.

  
  


How fitting...

  
  


_ "... and either must die at the hand of the other…” _

  
  


How beautifully ironic.

  
  


_ for neither can live while the other survives... " _

 

**"Happy Birthday, Tom."**

 


End file.
